I started this post with the title Blogging versus Journaling but they are not in competition being totally different mindsets. When we started this blog website a couple of months ago, I thought it would be a journal of sorts – talking about writing, talking about being a writers’ group in the same way as I do my daily journal. I journal, however, for an audience of One, Me. My thoughts come rapidly and randomly. I capture a sentence about the weather, then one of my cats gets my attention or the main activity of my day enters the page or the thought of a friend’s dilemma. Some days I’m delving into a conundrum that needs to be sorted in my life. Some days I write about clouds. My journal entries flit from idea to idea. I know I am the only one who will look at that page. I am talking to myself. Looking back on journal pages I find that I can tell what kind of day it is or will be by the thoughts that crowd my head. I try to do morning pages but that doesn’t always work so they happen when they happen. Journaling is a kind of mind clearing exercise often done outside and always handwritten. It helps me put perspective on myself in the context of my universe.
When I sit down to write a blog it is for an audience of others. I quickly realized that the mind that writes my journal is not the mind that writes a blog. In a blog, I organize my thoughts to communicate a cogent theme. I am writing to connect with other people. I am opening my head and inviting others to have a peek. I’m writing story. Blogging is done on the computer, edited with delete and backspace keys available.
Our writers’ group has, over the years, evolved into a kind of group journaling, sorting the meaning of life through writing. We often write from prompts. Those prompts lead us into a memory or story that illuminates pieces of our lives. I find it fascinating that given the same parameters, we three come up with totally different narratives or poetry. I write fiction and all fiction relates to reality on some level. No matter how whimsical I get there is a kernel of my life in a character or situation. I am blessed with a very pleasant life so when I write into a dark place, I conjure experiences I’ve heard or read, then stir them into stories based on my understanding of life, my beliefs. I do enjoy writing childhood experiences and family memoir occasionally. Everyone writes what they know. Jackie writes mostly memoir. Her stories come from deep places of personal experience. She found it very hard to write fiction when we first took creative writing classes together. She learned to do it and now comes up with characters and imaginary situations more easily. They are always infused with her Midwest roots. Sally is adept at writing both fiction and memoir. Her characters contain bits of herself. Knowing her so well now, I can spot the hint of her petticoat under the dress of her prose. She also writes from strong Midwest roots that formed her view of life. Sally and I like to write poetry, condensing a thought or experience into the fewest possible words with the most significance. That is the beauty of a long-lasting writers’ group. We riff on personal experiences to make stories we share. We explore and expand our ways of communicating in the safety of the group. Blogging is a step away from that safety, just as publishing our book, Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets is a public invitation into the ups and downs of our years together. It is a journey of discovery.
We live in a wild place. Our property backs to two hundred-plus acres of the Vistoso Nature Preserve, one of the many wildlife sanctuaries in Oro Valley. A variety of species of wildlife make their home in the Preserve from mule deer to javelina, coyotes, and bobcats. A mountain lion is sighted occasionally, and a black bear was reported in Big Wash preserve in our town. We are interlopers that they tolerate. Our town is bounded by the Catalina Mountains to the east and the Tortolita Mountains to the north. Animals retreat to the mountains during the hottest months of the year just as many people do. Come late summer, they return to the valley just like people do. It is common to take a walk in the neighborhood accompanied at a respectful distance by a family of javelina or a lone coyote. Bobcats pop in and out of yards, using fences as elements of their parcourse. Lizards and geckos are more prevalent than flies. I’ve not heard or read of a person being attacked by any of these animals in our town but people with small pets, cats, and dogs, have to be vigilant. Great Horned Owls and hawks have been known to carry off the little pets and a hungry coyote may attack a dog even if it is on a leash. We have a plethora of quail, rabbits, and lizards so you don’t see emaciated coyotes around here.
Ken and I have our cups of tea and coffee every morning on the back patio. Tea for me, coffee for him. Our open-air aviary attracts hundreds of birds daily. We enjoy the morning antics of tiny hummingbirds, small wrens, sparrows, and finches with the larger doves, mourning and white-wing. The variety of birds changes with the seasons. Dozens of Gamble Quail live in the underbrush at the edge of the Preserve all year around. They come as families to eat their share of the bird food we put out each morning. They squeak like a baby’s toy to call each other. In spring, they bring their offspring, eggs on legs, Ken calls them. The little ones can’t fly so they scurry around the ground, coming through the rail fence into the yard to chase each other until mama quail calls them back. They follow their mama in neat lines with papa as the shepherd bringing up the rear. There is always the renegade who goes his own way and makes papa double back to round him up.
Moxie
The winged visitor I enjoy most is the mockingbird. I named her Moxie. She was a steady visitor for a few years, sitting in a tree near our patio. Her conversation is amusing. Che-che-che, he-be, he-be, chirp, whistle, chitter-chitter, needer-needer, trill, click, twitter. She performs long soliloquies. We missed her for two years. I think she quarantined during covid, but she is back now. We noticed her delightful chatter a couple of weeks ago. She can scold like the cactus wren, clack like a roadrunner, and caw like a crow. When homes were being built near us a few years ago she would rat-a-tat-tat like the nail gun. She doesn’t join the feasting throng but sits in a tree above the crowd. Mockingbirds prefer insects and fruit to the seeds we provide. By 9:00 in the morning she goes on her way. I’m not sure about the lifespan of a mockingbird, so there may have been many over time, but I choose to believe it is Moxie again and again. I am very grateful she returned this year to entertain us.
Red
Another friend who joined us this year is Redtail Hawk. He sits high in the tallest tree. Mostly he is on the lookout for breakfast. When he soars in to take his watchful place all the birds, especially the doves, take off in a thunderclap of wings. He sends his squeaky greetings down to us as he sits preening. Gradually the birds reappear to continue eating. We discovered he is only interested in the doves. I think the smaller birds are too much trouble for the sustenance they provide. If a dove gets careless and returns too soon, Mr. Hawk is on it like white on rice. Doves are not quite bright and slow to boot, very easy prey for Red. He sometimes perches on one of the cinderblock fence posts with his catch and consumes it slowly. Soft grey feathers float into the breeze as he strips it down to the meaty parts. Not bothered by humans nearby, he concentrates on his meal. Then he too leaves the backyard for other daytime adventures and we are left with the twitters of the smaller birds. They are quiet during the afternoons, naptime, but start up again at dusk for a short time until dark. Resident bats come out at dusk. They are very quiet as they snap up flying insects. They are reclusive during the day. We are ever aware of the natural world in this place we call home.
There is an age-old metaphor – a tree as life. It is so because it works well. I was struck last week by images of devastation made by hurricane Ian as it churned across Florida. Images of destruction, man-made structures strewn across the ground as the palm trees waved goodbye to the storm, their fronds high in the air above. How do they survive? What makes the slender palm tree accept nature’s temper tantrum with equanimity while the solidly built structures below are reduced to rubble? I’m sure there are scientific explanations. I am not a scientist, nor do I especially enjoy scientific explanations. I prefer metaphor to explain the mysteries of life.
The palm tree is in its native habitat. It belongs. It is rooted. Yes, there will be casualties but for the most part, the palm withstands storms. Just as people when they are rooted will be able to withstand the vagaries that life offers. A person’s roots are not in the soil or even place-based. A person’s roots are in family, in the childhood that nourishes and solidifies his or her character.
Everyone is born with their own set of talents. How those abilities are nourished, how that character is encouraged comes at the beginning of life, the roots. How is the child treated? What does the child learn about being human? Babies are not blank slates. They come with a host of built-in sensors, instruments. Those instruments are fine-tuned to each person’s unique orchestration. They pick up cues from their environment about how to act and react. They interpret the cues according to their sensibilities. That is why two, three, or even eleven children of the same parents will interact with the world entirely differently.
If given stability, a child’s roots will go deep, grow strong. The stability is not of place, it is heart and soul based. A child rooted in emotional security, can move from place to place, in circumstances good or ill, and still be able to grow. They will bend with life’s challenges but stay rooted in their humanity. There are so many stories of people raised in difficult conditions who overcame obstacles to flourish and succeed because they acquired, in the beginning, a core strength that anchored, rooted, them.
It’s not all la-ti-da – an easy equation. Humans are by nature inquisitive. As they mature, they usually experiment with alternatives. That is the basis of human migration. Many seek to define themselves by pulling away from the familiar. Everyone has their own path to trod. There are studies that indicate character is fully formed by age eight. An established character prevails even through the storms of life. Of course, there are always the lost ones. Just as you see uprooted palm trees here and there, some people, even if rooted well, can develop addictions, disease, or psychosis, a myriad of things that dislodge their roots. They may find ways to endure but the disturbance will be manifested in their interactions with life forevermore. It is the responsibility of adults to provide children with stable roots for their best chance to withstand life’s tempests.
“Diana,” Julie, our receptionist called my desk, “there is a kitten on the rail outside the office. I’m going to bring it in before it falls.”
“Sure,” I said and left my desk to see what she was talking about.
We owned a small property management company, and our office was on the second floor of a building in a commercial area of Tucson. The pebble concrete open stairway was the only way up to the landing outside our door. The rail around the landing was the barrier that kept us from falling to the parking lot thirty feet below. A kitten walking on that rail was doing a highwire act with no net.
In Julie came with a small orange ringtail cat. She set him on the floor of the reception area, and he pranced into the main office, a prince coming to assess his kingdom. There was no hesitation. He did not appear frightened or intimidated to be in a foreign place. He held his ringed tail up proudly and acknowledged everyone in the office with a short visit as he toured each nook and cranny. It was obvious he had been cared for, no feral cat he. He was plump and confident. I followed him around to see what he would do. I began talking to him.
“I’m Ringer,” he told me in a telepathic way.
His Elegance, Ringer
I announced his name to everyone. I asked Julie to take petty cash to the Walgreens down the block and buy a litter box, cat litter, food, and bowls to make our visitor welcome for his short stay with us. We made posters to put up around the building. The only residential parcel on the block was an apartment complex behind our office building. It was sectioned off by a six-foot plus fence at the back of our parking lot. We made a poster for the apartments with Ringer’s picture and details to put up wherever people might see them. Ringer set about making himself at home charming each of our agents and employees.
My husband was out of town but due back the next morning. We had a cat at home, Phoebe (you can read about her in a separate blog post, 9/19). She was a demon cat and I knew she would not be amenable to adding to the family. No one else was immediately willing to take Ringer home. At the end of the day, I said Ringer could stay in my husband’s office for the night and we’d decide what to do with him if we didn’t get any response to the posters. It was a Friday night.
I picked Ken up at the airport and said we needed to make a short detour to the office before going home.
“What’s up?” he asked suspiciously.
“Just something I want you to see.”
When we got to the office I opened the door to his office and out came Ringer. “Where did you get that cat? It’s not staying here.”
I filled him in on Ringer’s backstory as best I could and said we were trying to find his home. Ringer did his part weaving in and out of Ken’s legs, looking up, making clever little meow sounds asking to be his best friend. It worked, Ken succumbed to his spell quickly.
“Ok. He can be here for the time being but we need to find him a home.”
Several weeks later, Ringer had established himself as the official office greeter. Everyone who came in, client, tenant, or applicant was checked out. He ran to the door whenever it was opened to see what new friend he could make. We had a policy with new tenants who had dogs that they had to bring the dogs into the office for an interview before we rented to them. The whole office is animal crazy so it was our way of getting to know lots and lots of dogs. Ringer also liked dogs and would make a quick acquaintance when they dropped by. If the dogs were friendly, he would stand by during the interview in the conference room, if not he would disappear back into the office. He was never intimidated but he was respectful of others.
Ringer especially liked to hang out in Ken’s office. If Ken left for a minute, Ringer would curl up on his chair. Otherwise, he would stretch out on the desk or snuggle up in the visitor chair. From time to time, he would wander the rest of the office checking on each person. Everyone adored him and enjoyed his company. He loved it when the printer started and would run to the cabinet it was on to stand by to see what came out. He was a great poseur when the camera came out.
Ringer stayed in the office every night alone. I took him to the vet that specialized in felines around the corner from our office. He pronounced him fit and healthy and said he was probably four to six months old. He also said he should be castrated. Ouch! I wasn’t sure I knew him well enough to authorize that act but since no one had stepped up to claim him, I did. We took him home after the operation to watch over him. Phoebe let it be known she did not approve. She would walk up and slap him in the face when he was resting on his little bed. Small as she was she packed a powerful punch. She hissed, she spat, she growled – in every way telling him he was an intruder. I spent time with her telling her she was still queen and that he was recovering from surgery and would go back to the office in a few days. I don’t think she bought it. We had to quarantine him to keep him safe.
Taking over the bosses desk
I took him back to the office after a few days and he was happy to be in his friendly environment. We started taking him home on weekends because we enjoyed his happy personality. He was the yang to Phoebe’s yin. Phoebe adapted, sort of. Ringer learned to stay out of her way. Then we began taking him back and forth every day. Ken always left earlier than I did to go to work so Ringer was my passenger. He liked the car ride to and from the office, especially when I played classical music on the radio. He would get into his carrier instantly when I put it down whether to go home or back to the office. Eventually, he grew to be fifteen pounds and too heavy for me to lug up and down the stairs every day. We made the decision that he was our home cat and Phoebe would just have to like it or lump it. It was a little nerve-wracking to leave them alone the first time without putting him in a separate space. We didn’t know if we would come home to war or peace. They worked it out. Ringer gave Phoebe a wide berth and she pretended he didn’t exist.
Ringer supervising the printer
Ringer, relaxing at home
Phoebe was my all-the-time cat. If I was home, she was with me, beside me, on my lap, sleeping with us. Ringer found his own place and stayed out of the way. Ringer adopted three stuffed pets, a yellow duck, a gray mouse, and a brown teddy bear. Each was two to three inches high. He carried them around with him one by one. Sometimes he would bring one or the other to us – meowing as he walked into the room to let us know he had a gift. He would lay it at our feet to share his special toy with us.
When Phoebe died, I had a talk with Ringer and told him he was now my support animal. He understood and from that day he came to sit on my lap, he slept with us at night and he hung around both of us all the time. He would bring his three buddies to bed at night, putting them at the foot of the bed. Then during the day he would take them one by one from the bed and play with them or leave them in other rooms. But always he would tuck them into bed each night. He enjoyed a cocktail at cocktail hour – a martini glass of water with a dash of water added. He liked being a part of the party.
Ringer was an indoor/outdoor cat who the entire neighborhood got to know. He was always friendly and curious. When he died, we heard from neighbors how much he would be missed. All the office staff mourned his passing too. Of course, no one misses him as much as we do. He is buried in our backyard with his three pets – mouse, teddy and duck, but at a great distance from Phoebe. Years later our cat, Oliver, goes to the marker slate at Ringer’s grave daily to sit and contemplate his domain in the backyard. I believe there is a spiritual connection between them.
My major passion aside from my family is Baseball, America’s game. I LOVE baseball. My mother told me it was inevitable because the only cool place in Wichita during the hot summer of ‘45 was the baseball park, so she watched a lot of baseball when she was pregnant with me. I was a September baby. That used to be playoff time. A lot has changed in seventy-seven years.
Over the years I watched evolutions of players, rules, and decorum on the field and off. Can’t say I’m impressed by it all that much. So disappointed in the Astros cheating a couple of years ago. But my excitement and loyalty for the game never wavered. I sincerely hope the talk of robo-umps, an automated strike zone governed by computer, is quashed. I love homeplate umpires, human and fallible, they provide an added element of suspense to the game.
Airbourne
To me, baseball is a combination of bullfighting (mostly bloodless) and ballet. It is an individual sport played as a team. Each player is highlighted when their skill is required. Pitchers on the mound are the bulls, powerful and potentially deadly with missiles sometimes topping 100 mph. The batter is the matador – sidestepping the bull’s charge until it is time to thrust the final blow and send the ball soaring through the air. That is when the ballet begins. Infielders and outfielders race, leap, spin, twirl through the air with nearly impossible physical grace to catch a ball coming toward them and then with equal style turn and twist to deftly throw the ball to the proper place to consummate a play.
When I was eighteen or nineteen one of the issues that bothered me was the players’ incessant need to adjust their cups. They looked so uncomfortable. I told my husband I recognized an employment opportunity for myself – MLB Cup Adjustor. I saw a chance to help those boys be more comfortable as they stepped up to the plate. Alas, it never came to pass. I think the equipment has been improved because I don’t notice as much adjusting these days.
Now as a matron, a senior woman of wisdom, I decided the role for me is Queen of Baseball. No compensation is required, only the acknowledgment and respect the position warrants.
These are a few of the rules that would be issued under my reign:
No spitting during a game
No cursing during a game
No tattoos above the neck until retired from active playing
No silly pitcher posturing – PITCH the ball – don’t look like a bird taking flight, a chicken laying an egg, or a little leaguer elbow-sighting the ball.
No sidearm or submarine pitching – again if you can’t pitch the ball overhand as it is meant to be pitched, find another job.
No extreme player shifts in the field – I think they got that message and it is being rectified.
No sissy bunting – hit the darn ball, hard or soft but HIT it like a man.
All commentators MUST be former major league players. They know what baseball is all about and can coherently share information and perspective with spectators. That means NO women as commentators. It may sound sexist but I’ve never heard a woman be as insightful as a former player when calling a game. If you haven’t been up to the plate facing a ball thrown 100 mph directly at you, stay in the spectator seats where you belong cheering for the boys on the field. That would make me the ONLY woman in baseball – as Queen. I admit that I am very blessed to have a former professional player for a husband. He explains clearly any action on the field that I don’t understand.
As to the 40-man roster of the Queen’s team, I confess it may not be weighted the same as the rosters of major league teams, pitchers to catchers to fielders, but these are my favorite players and I know they can do the job. The list, of course, changes season to season but many of these players are long-standing on the roster. These are not listed in any particular order of preference except Ohtani who is #1 in everything. I am adjusting to the universal DH concept and would find those among the players listed.
Pitchers
Shohei Ohtani- unequivocally MVP
Gerrit Cole
Adam Ottavino
Clayton Kershaw
Joe Kelly
David Price
Julio Urias
Dallas Keuchel
Justin Verlander
Kenley Jansen
Max Scherzer
Catchers – Captains of the game
Buster Posey
Will Smith
Carson Kelly
Yadier Molina
Infield
Freddie Freeman
Paul Goldschmidt
Anthony Rizzo
Nolan Arenado – a tiger at 3rd
Rafie Devers
Eduardo Escobar
Xander Bogaerts
Freddie Galvis
Bo Bichette
Bobby Dalbec
Carlos Correa
Dansby Swanson
Joey Votto
Jose Altuve
Justin Turner
Chris Owings
Outfield
A.J. Pollock
George Springer
Charlie Blackmon
J.D. Martinez
Aaron Judge
Joc Pederson
Mike Trout
Joey Gallo
Mookie Betts
I use a criterion not dissimilar to that of the Miss America pageant to choose my players. They must be well-rounded in every facet of baseball.
Must look good in the uniform – no baggy butts or paunchy bellies
Must have a good character, be courteous to fans, and a plus to their community, no whiners, kibitzers or pouters allowed. (Manny Machado is eliminated by this criteria). It’s a game, folks. Freddie Freeman is the perennial Mr. Congeniality. I love to watch him greet opposing guests on first base. – always with a smile.
MUST be talented – have outstanding skills on the field and always play to win.
This baseball season is coming to a close. It is impossible to root for just one team because MY players are dispersed among many teams so I root for the player. It gets kind of wicky-wacky when a favorite pitcher is confronting a favorite batter, or a favorite batter hits a fly ball that soars directly toward a favorite outfielder. Dilemmas I must deal with as a fan the Queen of Baseball.
She was a rescue. She took her second chance very seriously. She grabbed ahold of life and shook everything she could from it. She was determined to make the most of her escape from premature death. Phoebe had been found in the desert by hikers. Only a few days old, she was bare without fur in the hot sun, covered in ringworm, and abandoned. Someone had decided she was a lost cause and not worthy of care. The hikers covered her gently and took her to a no-kill shelter where loving hands restored her. Within a few weeks, a thick luxurious coat of black and white revealed her tuxedo style. She became the rabble-rouser of the cat shelter with energy that rivaled a free proton released in a small nucleus. She could not remain in the “kitten room” having terrorized the kittens with her high-octane behavior, so she resided with the adult cat population; free to roam through the big old house that was dedicated to the comfort and safety of all felines, large and small, old or young. They had special rooms and accommodations for sick cats.
When my husband and I went to the shelter to find a cat companion, I was intent on an older adult feline who needed a forever home, preferably male; someone calm, content and grateful to be loved. A tiny black and white energy ball flew from room to room, bouncing off walls and scattering sedentary cats that tried to avoid her relentless path of destruction. Knocking into and overturning toys and small cat furniture, she was a blur of activity.
“What is that? I asked.
“Oh, that is Phoebe. She’s not what you’re looking for at all. She is a kitten and very unmanageable,” the shelter volunteer sighed. “We don’t think we’ll ever find a home for her. She is a lot to handle.”
“But she is so small,” I said.
“Yes, only about five pounds but she thinks she’s a tiger. She never stops and we are always on alert because she can be under your feet in seconds even when you just saw her in another room.”
The volunteer filled us in on her history saying it was a miracle she survived and was cured so quickly from ringworm. They guessed her age at four or five months.
“I’d like to see her closer,” said I, always up for a challenge. The volunteer corralled Phoebe and handed her to me. Phoebe squirmed then looked me directly in the eye as if to say, you can’t hold me for long.
I released her and off she zoomed. We continued looking through the rooms at adult cats, petting, holding, and trying to find a connection with one. Then it was dinner time and the attendants set out large dishes of food. Cats scurried in from all over to find a dish they preferred. In the kitchen, an extra-large pizza pan filled with kibble was set in the center of the floor. Cats of all sizes and colors arranged themselves around the perimeter of the pan and began eating in orderly fashion. In came the little black and white demon. She muscled between two larger cats and started eating. The cat to her left was the biggest cat in the house. His name was Liberty, he was pure white, close to twenty pounds, and definitely a dominant male. He looked down at the brash intruder and took a swipe at her with his large paw. She looked up, giving him an insulant stare then continued to eat. Again, he knocked her sending her back from the dish. She retreated, walked to the opposite side of the dish, and pushed between two other cats. But she did not stop. She walked into the center of the pizza pan, directly in front of Liberty, and started eating. Liberty’s head jerked up. In complete disgust, he turned and walked away from the pan and stood by the doorway. His annoyance was evident and every cat that passed by him as they left the kitchen was given a swipe of his paw.
My husband looked at me and in a sorrowful tone said, “You’ve found your cat, haven’t you?”
“Are you sure? queried the volunteer in charge of adoptions. “She is really wild. We’ve had an awful time with her in the few weeks she’s been out of quarantine. “
“Yes,” I said, “she is my soul sister. I understand her and we will be just fine.”
“If you change your mind, we’ll understand, and please bring her back. We don’t want any other abandoned cats, even Phoebe.”
We had Phoebe for thirteen years, an indoor/outdoor cat; something that is discouraged in the predator-filled southern Arizona environment. Her character was too big to be contained in the house. She was very desert-wise. She was unpredictable. She had confrontations with rattlers, bigger cats, and assorted potential destroyers that she bested and lived to brag about. She provided a plethora of mice, geckos, and birds as gifts to us. She would bring them through the cat window and release them into the house fully alive for our enjoyment.
I have so many Phoebe tales, they could fill volumes. She once called 911 on our landline. I answered a ring at the door to find two handsome policemen asking if I was all right. It took some time before I pieced together what she did – a phone receiver off the hook upstairs told the story.
She hosted a mouse for weeks, catching and releasing it in our house until we finally caught and freed it to its desert home. She would race through the upstairs and people downstairs would say, “Do you have an elephant up there?” “No,” we replied, “just Phoebe.” Although she never grew to be more than seven pounds, her thudding footfalls as she raced around sounded like something much much larger was roaming the hallways. She bullied and intimidated human guests, fiercely defending her territory. My friends named her the cat from hell, but she was always the sweetest, most cuddly little girl to us. Her antics made us laugh.
After a mighty struggle with an incurable blood illness, Phoebe finally gave up. She is buried in our backyard and visited daily. After more than a decade I still miss her giant presence. Several treasured cats later (we now have three), none have filled that space.
This story was born from a prompt to anthropomorphize an element. I chose Time.
I believe in second chances. I believe that even in seemingly impossible cases, I can offer a broken soul reprieve. Sometimes a person must be stripped to their lowest point to find what is truly important. I watched Nathan and his brother go through tough times and I think they deserve another chance. This is Nathan’s story. A story of redemption. A story I, Time, healed.
After leaving the plains behind, the terrain became hilly. Hills and hollers, Nathan thought as the train wound through a narrow valley between steep rises on both sides of the tracks. He was on his way home for the last time. He tried to stop thinking, forecasting, what it would be like to see his mother again. He imagined the furrows of worry etched in her face were even deeper than three years ago when she visited him in jail.
Her frail body would be held together by a thick wrap of sadness. Her youngest son was dead. Not just dead but executed by the state of Colorado. The only execution since 1976. What she didn’t know was that her remaining son would be dead in a matter of days. Nathan couldn’t live with the guilt he carried over Jamie. It had been Nathan who pulled the trigger, not Jamie. Nathan’s plan, Nathan’s mistake. But he didn’t find the stones to step up and admit it and Jamie kept his silence throughout the trial, never giving his brother up to the authorities. He could no longer carry that burden.
He had to see his mother and clear her mind about Jamie’s innocence. Nathan knew her love was unconditional, and she would never in her heart believe that either of her sons could be so evil. But there she was wrong. Nathan planned the robbery and carried the gun. Jamie did not even know about the gun until Nathan pulled it from his jacket pocket. The store owner rushed Nathan and the gun went off. It became a distorted nightmare. Jamie grabbed the gun from Nathan and, as they ran from the store, he dumped it into a trash can in the alleyway. Of course, the police found it and Jamie’s prints were on it, so he was charged with the murder. Nathan had gone to jail for ten years as an accessory, and he was now on parole for ten more years. Jaimie had been executed just a few days ago, after two appeals.
The train entered a tunnel, the darkest longest tunnel. Lights on the train flickered and went out. It felt like a steep downward trek. As deep and dark as Nathan imagined the trip to hell would be. There was a mumbling from other passengers, but no one left their seat. It is my turn to step in.
I am Aion, the god of Time. You might be more familiar with my twin Chronos but he is only the god of measured time, the one that is marked off by clocks, hourglasses and other man-made instruments. He fulfills the human need to track time, quantify and qualify it. I, on the other hand, am the god of the continuum. I never stop. I am neither forward nor backward. I am always. I am forever. Occasionally I find it necessary to meddle in the affairs of humans when I see an example such as the one presented by Nathan and Jamie, two truly good-hearted young men who went astray for what they believed was a good cause. Their sister suffered from a rare cancer and the expense of her treatment decimated family resources. In what they considered a desperate moment they made a poor decision with deadly consequences.
Steena died without any remedy and the brothers went to jail. Their mother was thrice impacted in sorrow, losing her daughter, a son to the system and now Nathan considers suicide. When the train leaves the tunnel the poor decision to rob a store will be voided. I took Nathan back to the crucible of decision and gave him a second chance. He is indeed on his way to see his mother, but it is to manage his sister’s funeral. He is meeting his brother and as a family they will mourn but be united. The intervening ten years were spent in productive ways. He met his wife and they collaborated with doctors to start a charity to raise awareness and research grants for others who suffered as Steena did.
The train exited the tunnel. Nathan squinted at the sudden brightness and glanced out the window as the train sped past an open area of farmland. It all looked familiar, but not. He thought only of seeing his mom, comforting her in her grief and being once again with his brother after ten year’s separation. It would be a happy/sad occasion. At least they would all be together.
I, Aion, can change the moments of an event but I cannot completely erase some of the impressions. My little brother Kairos oversees the significance of an experience. Impressions may be imprinted in a person and come as flashbacks or deja-vu moments. People often believe they have been somewhere or seen someone before. Actually, I have rearranged a period in their life so the connections are blurred, but Kairos has stamped it with a sense of meaning that is irretrievable.
I have good health, a comfortable life, great memories, and positive people around me. I would be an absolute fool to not be grateful and feel blessed for all I have been given. Reviewing my journals, in an attempt to organize them, and talking with friends who called with warm birthday wishes set me to thinking of my life – as a quilt. Every person I’ve known through time is a patch on my quilt; small patches for brief acquaintances, larger ones for enduring relationships, and others somewhere in between.
The idea of a quilt came to me as I thought of my friend, Mary, who is a premier quilter and teacher. She helped me begin a quilt many years ago that today resides in a plastic box at the top of my closet, still in pieces. I don’t have the patience to sew but I loved the idea of making a quilt. Mary offered to finish it for me, but I’d rather do it myself. Maybe. Someday. I will begin again. In the meantime, my imaginary quilt is easy to piece together using the threads of memory.
Each patch has its own texture to match the person it represents from cozy chenille to fluid silk or satin, smooth cotton to linen, sturdy denim to rough scratchy burlap. Each patch has a shape – round, square, animal, flower, star, or leaf. Each square or shape has a color – bright or dull, dark or light, some printed with polka-dots, flowers, stripes or plaids, even animal prints (you know who you are).
A bright yellow silk patch is for the woman I can call on at any hour of the day or night. I can tell her the most outrageous thoughts; she understands me and never takes offense. How blessed am I to have her in my life? One animal print square is for my amazing friend who has the grace of a jaguar, the energy of a box of kittens, and the bright smile of a Cheshire cat. She lights my day. Another friend gets a white canvas triangular piece because it reminds me of him and sailing. My imagination has fabricated a giant quilted panorama for the story of my life.
A blue denim horse shape is for an old boyfriend whose memory still makes me smile. A pink chenille star is for someone I always think of as a soft snuggly part of my life. A boldly patterned cotton chintz in cool green, shaped as a flower represents a woman who is sturdy, bright, and resilient. The center of my quilt is a deep blue wool piece shaped into a compass rose that always points due north. It is for the man who has shared my life for fifty-eight plus years.
There are patches for my parents (Mama’s is delicate purple polka dots, Daddy’s a deep cinnamon velvet) and grandparents, my brother, and cousins. There are patches for faith, love, and service. There is no thing in my life as important as the people in it and that includes many fur people throughout the years. Each of those furry friends has a shape or square that tells their part in my story too.
A scratchy grey burlap patch is for the boss who attempted to dismiss my contributions to the company we worked for. I told him I would not accept his summary of my annual work review. He balked so I told him I would take my case to his boss with my evidence of accomplishments. Grudgingly he changed the report to my satisfaction.
I know I have been the prickly burlap patch in a few quilts. I am content with that. Every one of us is the hero in our own story and every hero needs an adversary against whom to sharpen their character skills. I hope I’ve been the snuggly chenille or bright silk or smooth cotton for most. No matter – my quilt is bright and beautiful and makes me smile. Thank God!
I live in Oro Valley Arizona, the high Sonoran desert. When you hear the word desert you, of course, think sand, sun, and relentless heat. Maybe even camels. Let’s keep it that way. We of Oro Valley like to keep our secret. We live in a paradise. Oh, we have our share of prickly things like cactus and stingy things like Gila monsters. But we are also surrounded by the beauty of cactus flowers in a variety of delicate colors, Mexican bird of paradise, purple Texas rangers, hummingbirds by the thousands, and on and on – a never-ending panoply of nature’s color and texture. Our valley is bounded by the Tortolita Mountains to the north, the Catalinas to the east, and the Tucson Mountains to the west. Tucson lies south of us and has additional mountain ranges framing it.
View from my desk
Winter in our backyard
Red waterfall – monsoon season
My favorite season is the fifth season. We have the regulation winter, spring, summer, and fall as most in the world but we also have monsoon season which interrupts the hot summer with thrilling drama. You can see monsoon clouds gather to the east over the Catalinas like towers of whipped cream, bright and white. Then, when the mood strikes, they climb above us, turn dark grey and let loose a torrent from the sky. I didn’t really understand the word torrent until I experienced my first monsoon. I was driving through town on a sunny August day when bam! Suddenly I could not see the front end of my car. An opaque sheet of water enveloped me making it impossible to move. It was as if I had driven into a waterfall. Fortunately, the downpours only last seconds or a few minutes then rain continues to fall in a more civilized way – in drops. Monsoon rain is commonly ushered in by loud thunder and exciting lightning strikes but occasionally it creeps up and pounces like a bobcat without warning. In a recent downpour, we could not see the houses across the street. They disappeared behind a veil of water.
When we hear monsoon thunder begin, my husband and I open up the doors and sit either on the front patio or back covered-patio to watch the fireworks. The sound of angels bowling balls through the sky is accompanied by sheets of bright light illuminating the mountains with occasional zig-zag strikes. Monsoons are the greatest in the evening, at dusk or later when the light show can best be enjoyed. Then the rains begin. The fragrance of the desert unfolding to the rainfall is intoxicating.
As with any extreme of nature’s many facets, there is danger in monsoons. Flash floods occur regularly during these tremendous storms. Floods wash away cars and other property, even houses, and cause death. Too many times we read that people, unusually young men on a dare, go to the edge of the Santa Cruz river that runs through Tucson to challenge the waters. The Santa Cruz is dry most of the year and is a temptation when it flows. Flood waters descend from the mountains to claim property and lives in the foothills also. Nature is to be respected as well as admired.
To my amazement, summer is when the locals flee to cooler climes. They escape to summer homes in the north or to the nearby White Mountains. I would never choose this season to leave town. It is by far the most beautiful time of year and temperatures drop from the June 100s to the 90s during the day. At night, as soon as the sun retires over the western Tucson Mountains, temperatures fall twenty to thirty degrees. And during the spectacular storms, they fall into the low 70’s. The humidity climbs, however, and we no longer have dry heat. Our environment becomes tropical for ninety days or so. The desert blooms its finest colors. The mountains turn green. Glorious monsoons are nature’s gift to us.
I grew up in the northwest and skied in the Cascade Mountains east of Seattle. Now I live less than sixty miles from the southernmost ski resort in the continental U.S. In Washington, at Snoqualmie Pass, the altitude is around 3,000 feet at the base and rises to 5,600 feet. Oro Valley, itself, is at an altitude of 2,600 feet. In the Catalina Mountains, we have Mount Lemmon Ski Valley at 8,000 to nearly 9.000 feet. Granted you are only able to snow ski or snowboard during a short winter window, generally February and March. The rest of the year you can ride the ski lifts to see spectacular mountain and valley views.
Snow stays in the mountains where it belongs. No snow shovels required in Oro Valley. We can see it fall and enjoy a snowcapped mountain scene from our yard without having to drive on slippery icy roads or slush as it melts. We have actually had snow in our yard on a few occasions over the twenty-five years we lived here. Twice it fell on Easter morning (see photo above). Snow stays a few hours then becomes mere hydration for the plants. As soon as snow begins to fall, kids rush out to build snowmen in the yard or at the park. It is funny the next day to see a tall glob of snowman in the middle of a yard that is totally clear and dry. We look for hills with snow to slide down on makeshift sleds since no one owns a sled around here. It is brief fun – and no muss, no fuss, it’s gone. We don’t have earthquakes or tornados or hurricanes either. In short, we live in a five-season paradise. Shhh – but don’t tell anyone.
In our book Telling Tales and Sharing Secrets, we pay homage to nature in essay and poetry as our group explores various genres of writing.
wonkagranny 